


a surgeon's hands

by mairesmagicshop



Series: a thousand forgotten things - a pre-story Arcana collection [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mairesmagicshop/pseuds/mairesmagicshop
Summary: The slow burn continues. Julian and his apprentice work together. The temptation nearly overcomes what he values above all. He’s too hard on himself and maybe something needs to change.





	a surgeon's hands

**Author's Note:**

> F!Apprentice, but she is unnamed. Thanks for reading.

Ever since his studies in Prakra, Julian Devorak has prided himself on his hands. Loath ever to part ways with a compliment - because if there could be one greater than from a master physician like Nazali Satrinava he could not conceive of it - it was the one indulgence he permitted himself. Steady, still as death, even; no nervous tics, no accidental hurt occasioned by an errant or hasty gesture.

A surgeon’s hands, they’d said, and it had stolen his breath clean away. He comprehended the power in those words and accepted that which he wielded: to be able to penetrate the fragile shell of the human form, navigate the maze of nerves and capillaries and ruddy waters constantly coursing within… and heal. There was no greater weight – and indeed, no greater thrill – than entering the ailing, dark abyss, and banishing the infirmity. Leaving it not untouched but transformed. Better than before.

This plague was a trial and a scourge for, among other things, it had left his sure hands impotent, good for nothing but the prodding of lifeless bodies for clues. But he knew it would not - could not - last forever. His hands would heal again; he could feel it in his bones. And so he looks upon his hands with trust and admiration, even if he cannot do the same for the rest of himself.

-

She’s been working in the clinic a little more than a month, and if the growing shadow of the plague seems as though it’s blotting out the very sun, she’s a single candle piercing the darkness. They’ve been meeting every evening to discuss the days’ trials: general observations, new admittances, the ever-growing body count. Her reports are thorough but laced with compassion, and tonight, he notes, the clinic is full of fresh-cut flowers. “It helps them to have something beautiful to look at,” she says. “And they help purify the air.”

He heaps praise on his apprentice – what an excellent idea, of course that must help – and finds himself unable to look away, their gaze upon each other lingering a beat too long for comfort. Decorum demands he bite back the unspoken obvious, gone jumbled but undeniable in his mind – you, my dear… you are the beauty… -

She smiles at his silence, politely averts her eyes. She knows, he thinks, a frisson of warning and excitement twining down his spine in equal parts. She must. He clears his throat out of habit, crooked smile returning. Composes himself again - steady.

He will do an autopsy this evening (these are human beings, damn it - he refuses to call it a dissection), the patient who she reported had survived five days after onset of the plague. There may be some secret, waiting to be unlocked within the body – An extra two days, how? What made her different from the others? - something which might free them all. They must try. She’s more than ready to assist him and he tells her so, awaiting her assent. Her fierce, hungry look is all the answer he needs, even as her words tumble out, heated and pained. “I will do anything to stop this. I’m in.”

The sun is nearly down, the sky awash in color. They lock up for the evening, chatting amiably as they make their way to the night market for a couple of meat pies, as they’ve done now countless times before. Their pace and the ease of their conversation have become pleasantly familiar. If he’s being honest with himself, their time together is the best part of his day; a reward for the plodding, difficult hours spent researching – agonizing – over some way to treat the victims, ease their suffering, at least, let alone cure the plague itself.

As they near the palace, she leans into him and murmurs an off-color joke, and the press of her breath feels altogether indecent against his neck. He meets her gaze, feigning scandal, his heavy brows arched, and as she gives him an incorrigible wink, they dissolve into laughter. For the briefest of moments, the plague, the din of the surrounding crowd, and the misery simmering amongst them all fall away. Only they remain, and Julian, full of shameful longing, thinks about sex instead of the dark duty that awaits them.

-

The descent into the laboratory is a somber contrast and there are no teasing words, not here. But there is closeness, fleeting touch, as he helps her into the apron and offers her the mask, his hands bare. It does not escape him that despite the ample spaces where she could take it unhindered, she chooses the spots where his fingers rest, her fingertips ghosting over his. His ears burn, his face is hot – I am not imagining this; that was deliberate. And then: “Will you tie it for me?”

He swallows hard as she places it to her face, the strings hanging down, turning her back to him. Shifting fluidly behind her, he studies the line of her, the tilt of her head, the way her ears sit, sighs inadvertently. “Julian? Are you all right?" In an instant, he remembers himself.

He mutters an apology, feeling ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, you great fool. But he's more interested than ever, now. Perhaps his intuition is right; it could be that the esteem in which she seems to hold him is not altogether professional. He feels a tug in his chest, a little burst of exhilaration which he clamps off tightly. Would it be too forward, then; would it be unwanted to...?

He reaches forward, his palms slipping against the sides of her neck, impossibly soft. She exhales softly, her head tilting back toward his touch. Taking the strings of the mask between his fingers, he draws his hands back and up, the insides of his wrists to the heel of his hands dragging firmly against her, up past her ear as he feels the shiver convulse within her.

He ties a quick bow, his fingers sliding down through the edge of her hair to rest at the base of her neck. He leans in just beneath her ear, trace of a smile at his lips. "All done. Don't forget your gloves."

She whirls on him suddenly - how very, very close she is, her eyes fixated on his mouth, lids fluttering upwards. She lifts her chin (rather suggestively, if he’s reading her right) and raises her arms, wiggling her gloved fingers in apparent comic relief. "I'm way ahead of you," she says with a smirk. "Are you ready?"

He swallows, clears his throat. Slips on his gloves speedily and holds his arms up to mirror her. "Born ready, my dear." Striking a jaunty expression, he feels transparent and false, his heart hammering so hard he can hear his own blood sloshing through his ears. Her answering smile is tempered with something that looks like anxiety, so he gives her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. You'll be fine, he says. It's something all doctors do. But she is not a doctor, and they both know it. She is now here for him. And they both know it.

He leads her out to the table where the body lays shrouded and waiting. He begins with lecture, gestures punctuating his speech which flows easily as she watches on, eyes wide but not quite afraid. Upon his request, she hands him the scalpel to begin. As she delivers it to him she stands for a few seconds, quite close, her heat seeping into his hip, and as he turns - 

A curious thing: a trembling hand. His hand, in fact. Odd, at first - but then, betrayal. He can trust nothing else in this cursed life. Will he mistrust his hands now, too? He scoffs within himself, feeling embarrassed and frivolous. Is there nothing I can keep safe? He wants to laugh, or else cry; tear his hair out. Will this wretched plague take everything from me?

The scalpel clatters to the floor, its thin, high, metallic laughter echoing all around them. He whispers a curse and lunges to the ground to retrieve it. He kneels and reaches under the table, and as he extricates himself, he feels her hand on his shoulder.

She is so beautiful, and so very close still, and with that touch, something passes between them. The flagellation within him comes to a halt as she looks on, visible in his peripheral. She told him something tonight - perhaps not directly, not with her words, but in a different way; she showed him. He dropped a scalpel. That’s all.

And he smiles, despite himself. Still, even as death.


End file.
